


that's what we're calling it

by youcouldmakealife



Series: between the teeth [54]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8202337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Jake says when he comes back, sitting in Petrov’s vacated spot.David shrugs. “I didn’t mind,” he says.





	

After the Fantasy Draft is over and the cameras are off, the immediate subject is where the group is going for drinks. David, armed with Georgie’s advice, wanders in the direction of Hearst after everyone starts breaking up. Hearst relays something to Jake, who nods and wanders over to their makeshift rivals, then says, “Ready to go?” 

“Where we headed, boss man?” Davies asks.

“Not far,” Hearst says, and it isn’t, is maybe a five minute drive in one of the rented cars waiting outside for them. David ends up crammed between Hearst and Davies in the back seat of one of them, sweating in his suit jacket after the first minute, and relieved when they pile out into the winter night outside a bar.

“It’s practically deserted,” David says. He’s heard plenty of jokes about the Cleveland night life, especially since Georgie joined the team, but it’s ten on a Friday night, so he expected at least a small crowd. There are a number of people at the bar, but most of the tables and booths are completely empty.

“Good,” Hearst says. “I made a reservation for fifty.”

David looks over. “You can do that?” he asks. This doesn’t look like a reservation sort of place.

“You can when you tell them the average income of the group is around six million,” Hearst says. “They tend to be cool with it then.”

“You telling me I’m not allowed to drink Bud, have to live up to the millionaire image?” Davies asks.

“You can,” Hearst says. “I’ll judge you, but you can.”

“Nah, screw it, they have Goose Island,” Davies says. “I’ll get a tab open, grab a few pitchers. You go sit down and get off your feet, old man.”

“Thanks, Jordy,” Hearst says. 

The place fills up quickly, mostly All-Stars, but also a few Barons who apparently didn’t leave town for the All-Star break, followed by a number of random people arriving in quick succession, David assumes because word of mouth got out about who exactly showed up. There’s a crush at the bar, enough that it isn’t worth waiting for a drink, so he gratefully accepts one from Davies when he returns. He isn’t much of an IPA drinker, but it’s that or stand shoulder to shoulder with someone at the bar for ten minutes. Most of the guys are still milling around, but the tables are starting to fill, and David looks for a likely one — Hearst is sitting at the de facto Barons table, Davies delivering drinks, Jake in bar crowd. 

He passes a table Bradley’s sitting at, wincing when Bradley waves. David waves back then immediately heads for the nearest table with an empty seat, no longer picky. It’s not that he doesn’t like Bradley — Bradley was always perfectly nice when he was on David’s line — but if he sits with Bradley, the conversation is inevitably going to turn to the Islanders, and David doesn’t want to hear an update on every single player, discuss the season with the understanding that their nosedive in the standings is because Oleg and David left.

David sees Petrov sitting alone, staring at his phone, and David sits down heavily opposite him. He hasn’t seen him off the ice since his first summer in Toronto, when he was on the opposing team, and has maybe exchanged a dozen words with him total, but it seems safer than Bradley. The Islanders are less likely to come up, at least.

“Hi,” Petrov says, glancing up from his phone.

“Is it okay if I sit?” David asks, maybe belatedly.

“Sure,” Petrov says. “If you’re okay with me ignoring you for the Greyhounds recap.”

“Who were they playing?” David asks.

Petrov’s flick back to his phone. “Knights,” he says.

“Final score?” David asks.

“You actually give a shit?” Petrov asks.

“Why not?” David asks.

“Avoided looking it up. Here,” Petrov says, moving to sit beside David, tilting his phone in David’s direction so they can both watch the highlights.

David pays attention to the OHL the way he pays attention to all the CHL teams, NCAA round ups. It’s useful information, especially since the names that come up over and over are more likely than not going to be an opponent some day, maybe a teammate. That’s mostly checking box scores, though, not watching games, and as Petrov comments on the game David quickly becomes aware that his knowledge of the current season sits well below Petrov’s. 

That’s slightly embarrassing, considering David’s from Ontario and Petrov’s American, and they both played in the Q. Petrov’s been living in Canada longer than David’s been away, so maybe that makes a difference. There’s distance, since neither of them ever played for an OHL team, but maybe that’s the allure. David doesn’t enjoy watching NHL hockey like he did when he was a kid. There’s too much personal stake in it now — games whose finals matter to his team’s standings, players on every roster David has had a personal run-in with. If he does watch one, he’s cataloguing weaknesses, deficiencies to capitalise on in the future. It’s work, now, game tape to study instead of a game to enjoy. Maybe watching Juniors is different. David should catch a game sometime, see if he can hold onto the joy of it again, the investment with no incentive beyond watching a team you like win.

“I don’t understand how a team can be a dynasty when they have to recycle their roster every three years,” Petrov mutters after a goal in the final minute, the Knights ending the game up 5-2.

“Good management?” David asks, and Petrov grunts non-committally.

“I heard the Knights mentioned like four times, I couldn’t not come over, Alumni rule,” Jake says, appearing behind David, and David startles. “Mind if I sit? I have a pitcher coming if you need bribery.”

“Sure,” David says, echoed by Petrov. He expects some bro hug, because they played together in Sochi, but Petrov doesn’t stand, which settles David’s indecision about whether he should get up, give Jake a hug. He already gave him one during the draft, and that was only a few hours ago. He’s not sure how many he can give.

“It was nothing good about the Knights,” Petrov says.

“I heard the word dynasty,” Jake says. “That’s a good word.”

“You also hear the word ‘smug’?” Petrov asks.

“Must not have heard it over dynasty,” Jake says, and David stifles a laugh. Jake grins at him, and David can’t help but smile back.

“Knights are flashy,” Petrov says.

“That is not a bad thing, Tony,” Jake says, which devolves into low-key bickering about the Knights David doesn’t know enough to participate in, but can follow along with well enough. The pitcher arrives, thankfully a lager, along with three clean glasses, and David carefully fills everyone’s glasses while Petrov picks apart the Knights’ defence.

“Thanks,” Jake says, warm, when David nudges a glass his way. “This remind you of anything?” he asks, when Petrov takes a break to sip from his own.

“What do you mean?” David asks, but he’s been thinking about that day in Toronto, the one Lapointe was outed, when the only break in the ugly knot of fear that sat in him was Jake and Vincent arguing about the rankings of the OHL draftees, at least until he went over to Jake’s after, when Jake — he wonders if Jake replaced the couch like he said he would.

David can’t help the blush. “Vincent?” he asks. He’s Petrov’s teammate, and Petrov mentioned him a few times in the context of the Greyhounds, which might be why Jake’s thinking about it. It does feel like an echo. A ripple in still waters.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Exactly.”

“Kind of,” David says. 

David doesn’t know if Jake opened a tab and told them to keep pitchers coming or what, but that’s exactly what happens, appearing every time their glasses get low. They’ve gone through three by the time Petrov gets up. “I have any more I’m going to embarrass myself during hardest shot,” he says.

“Good luck,” Jake says.

“He’s not on our team, Jake,” David says in an undertone.

Jake snorts.

“Yeah, thanks,” Petrov says. “Later.”

There are a number of flashy showcases of skill scheduled tomorrow, but David isn’t involved in any of them, wasn’t invited to be, except as a back-up in shot accuracy if someone was unable to make the weekend. Honestly, he’s relieved. He’s never liked the showmanship aspect, and he’s sure if he had been asked to do certain events, he would have spent his time concerned he’d make a fool of himself in exercises that belong in practice, not hockey games. Jake wasn’t invited to participate in any either, at least as far as David is aware, and David would have a comment about skill versus brawn, but then — well. David has as many invitations as Jake.

If he was participating, he’d be heading up to bed, but it’s not even one, and most of the players are still there. Some have switched to shots, and David’s trying not to catalogue whether those players are on his team or opponents. Meaningless competition, he reminds himself, and accepts the beer Jake pours him from the next pitcher. 

“This should probably be my last, though,” David says.

“Sure,” Jake says. “Gimme a sec, I’ll go close my tab.”

“You don’t have to,” David says. “You’re welcome to—”

“Nah, should quit after this pitcher,” Jake says. “We’re going out tomorrow too, I should pace myself.”

“That’s fair,” David says.

David waits while Jake goes up to the bar, running his finger over the condensation on the glass, making idle patterns.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Jake says when he comes back, sitting in Petrov’s vacated spot.

David shrugs. “I didn’t mind,” he says.

“So, like,” Jake says. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” David says. 

“Things with your teammate?” Jake asks.

“Good,” David says. “They’re fine.”

“I’m glad,” Jake says. 

“You?” David asks. “How are you?”, which prompts the expected update of the lives of people David’s met once or a few times or not at all, but he doesn’t mind listening, and finds himself laughing at the assorted mishaps Forster experienced proposing to his girlfriend, almost as much due to Jake’s visible amusement as the story himself. He vaguely remembers Jake telling him, years back, about Forster finding the only other Albertan in Sunrise. 

It feels like a long time ago. Maybe because it was.

“Is she the Albertan?” David asks.

“Yeah,” Jake says, sounding surprised. 

“He did get engaged, right?” David asks.

“Yeah,” Jake says. “Somehow Jenn said yes.”

“That’s good,” David says. “He seems nice.” Forster had as much inside information on David and Jake as anyone, and he never did anything with it, unless David counts warning David off breaking Jake’s heart, long past the time that conversation would be considered relevant.

“He really is,” Jake says. “I think you two would really get along.”

“Maybe,” David says. “What do I owe you for the drinks?”

“Nothing,” Jake says, then when David pulls out his wallet, “Seriously. I wasn’t breaking the bank, here.”

“Then I’ll buy your drinks tomorrow,” David says stubbornly.

“Promise?” Jake says, and the way he says it, it sounds like — something else.

“It’s only fair,” David says. 

“Wouldn’t want to be unfair,” Jake says.

“Exactly,” David says, takes the final sip of his beer. “I should head back.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jake says, and when David looks dubiously at the remaining beer in the pitcher, “I guarantee it’ll take me two seconds to find a taker, I’ll meet you outside,” Jake says, and true to his word, hands the pitcher off to Boucher in a matter of seconds, catches up with David at the door.

“You don’t have to escort me,” David says, because more than half of the guys are still there, and Jake’s never been the type to leave early if he can help it. He’s an A, too, and Hearst already left, so he should stick around. David doesn’t want him to duck out early out of some misplaced sense of obligation. “I can get back to the hotel. I’m not that drunk.”

He is drunk, at least a little, but the cars appear to have been rented for the night, so it’s simply a matter of getting from the lobby to his room, which David thinks he’s capable of.

“Honestly, I want to head back,” Jake says. “I’d prefer a good night’s sleep and not waking up hungover.”

“Not like our first All-Star,” David says.

“Guess you rubbed off on me,” Jake says, and when David goes red, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like — I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, I know,” David says.

“Okay, good,” Jake says. “I feel like an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole,” David says.

“Maybe just an ass?” Jake says. “I keep acting like an ass in front of you.”

“No you don’t,” David says.

“I really do,” Jake says. “Like a little kid with a crush who keeps doing dumb things.”

“You have a crush on me?” David asks before he can help himself.

Jake laughs, and something inside David sinks.

“Yeah,” Jake says, and David looks over. “Sure, let’s go with total understatement.”

“Um,” David says.

Jake looks over at him. “To be clear, I do have a crush on you, if that’s what we’re going to call it.”

“Oh,” David says.

“Total ass,” Jake groans. “Again.”

“You’re not,” David says. His heart’s going too fast. “You’re not an ass.”

“Thanks,” Jake says, not looking at him. One of the cars pulls up, and they get in. The backseat, so tight when it was David squeezed between players, feels like a long stretch of leather and space between them on their way back. David touches a finger against his cheek. Despite the temperature, his skin’s hot to the touch. Maybe he’s got a fever. He feels like he has one.

They’re quiet on the drive back, through the lobby, in the elevator. Jake gets off on the sixth with David. “Think we took this floor over,” Jake says, and pads after David. There’s no way David’s room is on the way to Jake’s, since it’s at the end of the hall, but Jake walks him to his door.

“You didn’t have to—” David says.

“I wanted to,” Jake says. “I just wanted — maybe I could have said this at the bar, it’s not like it’s — I really miss — I miss being your friend, and I was just —”

Jake’s gone red. He’s not meeting David’s eyes, cutting each sentence sharply before it reaches its point, and David’s reminded of nothing more than himself, like Jake’s tapped right into that, is saying exactly what David would, and exactly as clumsy, as awkward. Like he’s taken the words out of David’s mouth, and the words in David’s mouth were inadequate.

It hurts to listen to.

“Jake,” David says. Glances down the hall, but it’s clear, and they’re in front of the last room. It’s not safe, but it’s as close as it can be to private.

“Hm?” Jake says.

“Can you look at me?” David asks, and when Jake turns to look at him, reaches out to touch Jake’s cheek, heart nearly pounding out of his chest.

“Hi,” Jake says softly, and David kisses him, over almost before it begins, a brush of lips before David pulls back, looks down the hall again.

“Wow, okay,” Jake says, then starts laughing, this giddy little laugh that David knows isn’t at him, a laugh so contagious David can’t help but join in, until they’re laughing at each other, standing too close to one another, compromising, if not as compromising as the moment before.

Jake’s laugh fades into quiet after a moment, and the silence stretches, Jake looking at him, David looking back. David can usually trust Jake to break them, but he doesn’t this time.

“Do you want to come in?” David asks. “My roommate — it’s Hearst? He’s went home, so it’s —”

“Like, more than anything?” Jake says, words tripping over one another as they come out of his mouth. “But you’ve been drinking and I’ve been drinking and we have baggage so um. No. Let's not do that right now. But I really want to, yeah.” 

“Oh,” David says.

“So I should,” Jake says, jerks his thumb in the direction back towards the elevators. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course,” David says, feeling kind of numb, then unsure what to feel when Jake reaches in, hugs him good night, two conflicting messages that David can’t reconcile. 

“Night,” Jake says when he pulls back, and David gives him a weak wave, unlocks his door, closing it behind him before sinking down on the edge of his mattress, exhaling shakily.

He doesn’t know how to feel. Rejected, but every single thing Jake said — maybe David’s putting too much stock into that. Maybe David’s misinterpreting. He’s done that before. He’s done that a lot. Maybe he’s missed something. That isn’t uncommon either. Jake might be dating someone, David didn’t even ask, just kissed him, assuming it’d be — or maybe Jake just — maybe he didn’t want to, it’s been a long time, and David knows that the way he’s dwelled on things isn’t the norm. Maybe he was just letting David down as gently as he could. He’s a nice guy. He’s always been a nice guy. He’d be kind about it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he reaches for it, hands unsteady. 

_can we talk properly tmrw?_ , the incoming text says, which sounds ominous.

 _Sure_ , David texts back.

 _awesome_ , Jake texts back, which seems less ominous, but might not be with the frequency Jake uses the word, then, _sleep well_ , followed by a heart, which David doesn’t know how to take.

‘Talk’ doesn’t usally mean good things. It could be exactly what David’s worried about — Jake has a girlfriend or a — David was misinterpreting things, David’s too much work. David knows he’s too much work. But staring at the final message, the heart sitting like punctuation at the end, thumbing his phone every time it starts to go dim — 

David can’t help but look forward to tomorrow.


End file.
